


within me, an invincible summer

by notcaycepollard



Series: the future unfolding, infinite [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Found Family, M/M, Pining, Post-Civil War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, canon-typical trauma, references to Steve/Sharon, soft domestic winter falcon is my downfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7227058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows Steve thought Sam’d be looking after Bucky. Turns out, those first few days, it's the other way around. Turns out, Sam was holding himself together more than he realized. Alone, Sam has nightmare after nightmare. During the day, his eyes ache with how tired he is. He forgot how bad this could get. It's been years, since Riley. Feels like months. Like days. He sits and stares at the lake for hours, lets himself go cold with lack of movement, and it's Bucky who brings him a blanket. A cup of herbal tea that never tastes of anything even when it should. Company, sitting down next to him, while Sam shivers.</p><p>If Bucky dreams, he’s quiet about it, but Sam knows that doesn’t mean he’s okay. Honestly, he never actually sees Barnes sleeping. He’s sitting up, on the couch, when Sam goes to bed, and he’s sitting up, same spot, when Sam stumbles awake again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	within me, an invincible summer

Sam hasn't had a nightmare in years. He got therapy, when he first came home, took his own advice and levelled his head out before trying to help everyone else, and although losing Riley still aches like the bruise left after a punch, he’s adjusted, and he’s happy. Even when he gives it all up, the job, the apartment, the morning runs around the National Mall, he’s happy. He’s doing good, and he’s part of a team, and he couldn’t have got back in for better reasons. When he dreams, they’re peaceful.

The first night off the Raft, he has four nightmares in a row. Falling, always falling. Tony’s repulsors hitting him in the chest, and the Winter Soldier ripping off one wing, throwing him broken off a cliff high over water, and Riley, Riley, Riley. Rhodes. The suit crippled - the wings crippled - and he’s up there just to watch, and he looks down, and the grenade launcher is in his own hands.

The last one, he wakes up in a cold sweat, blinks into the dark room. There's a weight next to him, a body he takes first for Steve before his brain catches up, filters in the blank space where a metal arm should be, the smudge of dark hair hanging loose to the shoulder, the way Bucky breathes. Careful, like he doesn't want to startle him. His right hand is resting on Sam's shoulder. That's what woke him, he realizes.

“You,” he says, rough, and sits up.

“I didn't-” Bucky says, “I- you were screaming. I wanted to- I thought, Steve, maybe, but he's still with Maximoff.”

Wanda had been catatonic, when they'd pulled her out. Clint and Steve had cut off the collar, the restraints, hands so gentle Sam’d ached to see it. Big brothers, both of them, and so angry it’d burned down dark.

“She’s just-” Steve had said, “they- she’s just a _kid_ , and Tony _saw her like this_ , and he didn’t-” and then he had sat by her, in the quinjet, his jaw working. Muscles clenching hard, teeth grinding down to dust under pressure.

“It's okay,” Sam says, drags a hand over his face. “Thanks. It's fine.” Bucky tightens his grip briefly, squeezing like maybe he wants to do more, before he drops his hand away from Sam's shoulder.

“Okay,” Bucky murmurs, very quiet, and stands up. His balance is all wrong, Sam sees. He moves like he's still injured. Steve’d said, briefly - _it was bad, Sam. Tony blew off his arm. Nearly killed him -_ but this is the first time Sam's seen Bucky for himself, and he's cataloguing injuries without needing to think about it. Broken ribs, fractured zygomatic arch, probably some internal bleeding - lacerated liver, maybe, something only the serum’s gonna fix. An arm lost for the second time. Sam touches his fingers to the deep bruising on his own cheekbone, and thinks about Tony, and the kind of desperation and anger that makes you hit like that. _Rhodes_ , he thinks, he- the grenade launcher is in his hands, it’s on Sam, doesn’t matter that it wasn’t him who fired the shot, he should have gone down and Rhodes is somewhere maybe learning how to walk again, damage to his spinal cord, some form of paralysis, it’s-

He shakes his head, tries to clear it. Not helpful, all of this. Let it go, Sam.

“Thanks,” he says again, because Bucky's still standing there, and what else is there to say.

“I,” Bucky starts, tilts his head. “You want a hot drink? Tea? They got, like, herbal tea nowadays that's pretty good.”

Sam's not gonna be able to sleep again. Tea sounds okay, maybe.

 

“You didn’t sleep, on the Raft?” Bucky asks, pushing a cup of chamomile tea over the table to Sam. He says it awkwardly, like he’s following a script for conversation. _You say this, and then I say this, and that’s how humans work._ And underneath that, it’s tentative, like he’s got no right to ask, like Sam’s gonna say _I hate you, stop talking to me, we’re not friends_.

They’re not friends, but Sam’s not- they could be friends, maybe. Sam’s kind of doubtful, but what choice does he have? These are the people he’s gonna be around for a while, looks like.

“They kept the lights on,” he says. “All day, all night. I don’t know if they were trying to break us, or just being jerks, but… I didn’t really get enough sleep to dream, you know? Just catnaps, here and there.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, and makes a face, and it takes Sam a minute to realize it’s sympathy, mingled with anger. The idea that _James Barnes_ is angry about the way he was treated makes Sam feel something, deep and painful, but he’s too tired, too sore, to interrogate what it is. He has to look away, picks up his mug of tea, blows on it. The steam is warm on his face. When he sips, it’s still too hot to drink, so he just holds it under his chin, lets the steam cloud his vision.

“You want honey, or something?” Bucky says, and Sam shakes his head, clutches his mug tighter. He’s cold - he’s been cold since the Raft, damp salt air in his bones, the chill horror of Rhodes’ fall under his skin - and Bucky makes a noise before Sam feels him drape something around his shoulders. He looks up, discovers Bucky’s hoodie, still warm from Bucky’s body heat. The left sleeve is tucked inside itself, very neatly.

“I don’t-” he says, and stops, sips his tea again. It’s gone luke-warm between his palms, tastes like nothing in his mouth. He wonders how much time he lost. He’s cold, and the sweater is warm, and he decides not to think about it, just pulls it on, rubs his thumbs against the worn cuffs. “Thanks,” he mutters, drinks more tea, and Bucky just sits across the table, silent and patient. He waits like he’s Sam’s therapist back at the VA, like he’s got nothing else to do, like he’s not so tired he could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. Sam breathes out, and sits back, watches Bucky mirror the movement.

“Where are we?”

“Secret base,” Bucky says briefly. “Fury got in touch. Soon as he saw the shape of things going down, he got Barton’s family out, made contingencies. Somewhere in Canada, and remote.”

It doesn’t feel like a secret base; it feels like a sprawling farmhouse, quiet now in the dark of the night. Sam’s sitting at an old wooden table, and he touches the surface of it like it’ll ground him. He’s been too many places in too short a space of time; he’s jetlagged, maybe, underneath the battle tiredness and the adrenaline crashes and everything else. When he looks up, Bucky is watching him.

“You want more tea?” Sam asks, getting up, because he’s suddenly wired, can’t sit still. Bucky blinks.

“Hot chocolate,” he says, and if Sam were better, were less tired, hadn’t been in an underwater prison for the last week and on the run before that, he’d have a smart quip ready, would be able to roll his eyes, tell Barnes not to push his luck. Instead he just hunts in the pantry for hot cocoa mix, and gets out milk from the fridge, and heats them together, slowly, in a pan over the stove. It smells good; he’s made enough for both of them, and this time when he drinks it he can even taste it.

 

They sit together in the kitchen until the sun comes up. Grey light, filtering in through old sash windows. In this light, Bucky looks old and impossibly young all at once. He was barely in his twenties when he died. Steve’s younger than Sam, and Barnes is too, and simultaneously they’re so old Sam’s still confused by it, some days.

“I still don’t like you,” he says, because a mug of chamomile tea and a hand gentle on his shoulder don’t make up for everything else. Except that they do, and it does, because Bucky is not the Winter Soldier is not his enemy, and Sam is better than this petty grudge.

(Is it because Steve always chooses him? But Steve listens to Sam too, and Sam always chooses Steve. _Go_ , he’d said, and it’s a decision he doesn’t regret, even with the aftermath. Steve had come back, in the end, and here they are now, three people linked together across time and space and the weight of years and history and violence between them. Fuck, he’s so _tired_.)

“You should get some rest,” is all that Bucky says, but he chews his lip, and his eyes are cautious, and Sam _aches_.

“Later,” he mutters, dismissive. Wouldn’t be able to sleep now that it’s light, anyway. “You want pancakes?” Bucky’s eyes widen, and he nods, and Sam files that away to look at later. James Barnes has a sweet tooth. Huh. Some small and base part of him doesn’t want to think about that, to think of Bucky liking pancakes and hot chocolate and apple chamomile tea, to soften his heart towards him. _No_ , he thinks, _I won’t move, no_ , but he’s already getting out the butter and flour and syrup, so probably, it’s too late.

 

Three days after Sam arrives, Steve pulls him and Bucky into the kitchen, sits them down, fidgets for a minute. He looks so tired. They’re all tired. Steve hasn’t slept, and Sam hasn’t slept, and Sam doesn’t know if Bucky _ever_ sleeps. Dark circles everywhere, like bruises of exhaustion.

“Look,” Steve says, and pauses like nobody is gonna like what he has to say.

“Spit it out,” Bucky tells him, “I don’t have all day,” and it’s dumb, it’s a dumb joke, they’ve got all the time in the world, they _can’t go anywhere_ , and Sam has to take a breath before he loses it.

“We need to move you,” Steve says, bluntly, and Bucky nods like he was expecting it. “Somewhere more secure. It’s not forever. Just- just for a minute, okay?”

“It’s fine,” Bucky shrugs. “They want me more than everyone else. You need to protect the rest of them. Laura and Wanda and the kids. I get it.” He looks like he might even believe it, and Steve looks at him all blue-eyed earnest regret for a minute before nodding like he’s satisfied.

“Sam…” Steve says, then, turning to him, and Sam knows what he’s going to say before it comes out.

“You need me to go with him.”

“I need you to go with him,” Steve agrees. “It’s a big ask, I know, but… I have responsibilities. Things I gotta do. I wish I could stay, but I can't.”

“It's fine,” Sam says. “Steve, it's fine.” He meets Bucky's eyes, even smiles a little. “You wanted us to get on, right? If a week in a safehouse together doesn't do it…”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, “It's gonna be a goddamn sitcom, alright. _Buddies_.” Again, it's suddenly the funniest thing Sam's ever heard. Two guys in a safehouse. Three superheroes in a Volkswagen beetle. Steve's face is a picture.

“It's fine,” Sam says again. “I'll make him do all the dishes. Early morning runs. We'll have so much fun.” Bucky scowls, and Steve frowns, impossibly earnest and so weary Sam aches to look at him. _Go_ , Sam wants to say, _go, it's okay, you can leave us behind. You dropped the shield but you should have known it wouldn't end._ He doesn’t know whether Steve knows how to put this down. He's followed Steve everywhere, since they met, but putting the weight down, taking a minute to sit and do nothing at all except recover and snark at a soldier who should have been dead seventy years ago, it feels like something Sam needs, right now. Captain America needs his help, there’s no better reason to get back in. No better reason to get back out.

His eyes hurt. He feels sick with exhaustion. Couldn’t get back in right now even if he wanted to. His wings are clipped, and he doesn’t remember the last night he slept all the way through.

 

The flight to the new safehouse is a little weird, honestly. Three superheroes in a Volkswagen beetle, Sam thinks again, and smiles to himself. Bucky kicks his seat. He stops smiling.

“You really want to do that,” he asks, without looking back, “when it’s just gonna be you and me, alone, in a house, for _weeks_ ,” and Bucky huffs a little.

“Sam,” Steve says, infinitely patient, and Sam’s right on the edge of saying _he started it_. He reels it back in.

“Steve,” he replies, pitch-perfect for Steve’s particular brand of resigned and righteous chiding. It makes Steve smile, just a little. A brief flicker of amusement across his face.

“Where we’re going… where you’re going, I stayed here, for a while, back when I first came out of the ice. It’s nice. Peaceful. Banner built it. I didn’t know if it was still safe, but Fury says he called in some favors. Borrowed the keys for a while, so to speak.”

“Borrowed the keys from _who_ ,” Sam asks, pointedly, and Steve shrugs like he doesn’t know. It comes as a surprise, Steve trusting Fury, but good, too. Maybe he’s just too tired to distrust everyone, these days. Maybe he’s got to reserve that distrust for people who actually deserve it.

The safehouse - the Retreat, Steve calls it - _is_ nice. A cabin, rustic, but Sam can see the reinforced walls, the door that’ll withstand a battering ram. He looks past all that, focuses on the lake, the fireplace, the lumpy old couch. Tries not to think about his apartment, and whether he’ll ever get back there.

Steve stays for lunch, and then leaves, tired and resolute. He's already talking to someone on the phone when he walks away. Sam looks at Bucky instead of at Steve’s back, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and catches a glance that says everything. Grey-blue eyes full of longing, and then a blink, dark lashes sweeping downward. Mouth in a shape Sam recognizes. _Oh_.

 _How long_ , he wants to ask, _was it forever, did he ask you without asking the way he did me, he just looked at me and I was done_ , but his mouth can’t shape the words. He’d loved Riley, that way. Knows how cold it burns. No wonder Bucky’d run, and kept himself alone those two years Sam and Steve were looking and looking and _looking_. That kind of love, nothing good comes of wanting so much.

“Come on,” he says instead, “you gotta pick your bunk.”

There’s only one bed. Bucky takes the couch, instead, and Sam’s too tired even to argue. They both sleep about the same anyway, it doesn’t matter where.

 

Sam knows Steve thought Sam’d be looking after Bucky. Turns out, those first few days, it's the other way around. Turns out, Sam was holding himself together more than he realized. Alone, Sam has nightmare after nightmare. During the day, his eyes ache with how tired he is. He forgot how bad this could get. It's been years, since Riley. Feels like months. Like days. He sits and stares at the lake for hours, lets himself go cold with lack of movement, and it's Bucky who brings him a blanket. A cup of herbal tea that never tastes of anything even when it should. Company, sitting down next to him, while Sam shivers.

If Bucky dreams, he’s quiet about it, but Sam knows that doesn’t mean he’s okay. Honestly, he never actually sees Barnes sleeping. He’s sitting up, on the couch, when Sam goes to bed, and he’s sitting up, same spot, when Sam stumbles awake again.

“Sorry,” he says, fourth morning, “I didn’t- I wasn’t yelling, was I?” Bucky looks up at him, eyes wide.

“You were,” he says simply. “Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t asleep. You didn’t wake me.”

“Fuck, man, do you ever actually-”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, soft. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Do you want me to wake you up, it happens again? I wasn’t sure.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam replies, an echo broken in exhaustion, and fuck, no, they’re not fine, they're not okay, neither of them are okay, he should- he should call Steve, maybe, except Steve is  _busy_ , Steve is out fixing the world they broke the same way he always does, and they’re just going to have to knuckle through this. He knows how. He’s a goddamn trauma counsellor, come on, he’ll be fine. He keeps all this shit folded away so neatly in that suitcase he carries around, and Rhodes falling, Rhodes going down, it's jumbled it all up again, but Sam knows how to smooth it back into place. In theory, he knows. In practice, it's harder.

He makes oatmeal for breakfast, and they eat in silence, and then he takes a book, sits by the lake again. It’s a sunny day. It’s nice. This is- it’s just all so _nice_. He wishes he could appreciate it.

“Sam,” Bucky says, and then, louder, “ _Sam_.” A warm hand on his shoulder. Sam groans, blinks a few times. The book’s fallen out of his hands. There are pins and needles in his feet, and he’s got a cramp in his leg, and he’s just really fucking _done_ with losing time like this.

“Why don't you go take a nap,” Bucky says, voice so gentle, like he's talking to a five year old. Sam's nephew, or Lila Barton, a kid cranky with lack of sleep and overstimulation. “Come on, Wilson, your eyes look like two holes burnt in a blanket, when's the last time you slept more than a couple hours at a stretch?”

“When did _you_ ,” Sam says, sullen, “you don't look so great yourself, man,” but he lets Barnes bully him into the bedroom, into lying down, closing his eyes. _Don't go_ , he wants to say, and is ashamed - to need company to sleep, like a baby waking up with bad dreams - but Bucky sits down anyway, foot of the bed, and Sam's asleep before he can feel embarrassed about it.

 

When he wakes up, he's alone in the room, late afternoon sun slanting red-golden across the wall above his head. The blanket has been pulled up over his shoulders, and he feels _better_ , bones less terribly heavy, head a little clearer. He rubs his eyes, and gets out of bed, wanders in socked feet into the kitchen.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Bucky says, not turning around. Sam was quiet, but he forgets - forgets that Bucky's got reflexes just as quick as Steve, hearing amplified from serum and years of necessity. Sam can't sneak up on Steve worth a damn, either.

“Hey, yourself,” he mutters, cracks his jaw with a yawn. He realizes he's thirsty, mouth dry, and reaches for a glass, fills it from the faucet. The water is so cold when he drinks that his teeth ache, a clean pain that clears his head a little more. He leans back against the sink, and looks at Bucky in profile, the shadows cast on him by the last of the sunset from the window. There are tins of tomatoes open on the bench, and Bucky has his hair pulled back, and he looks more relaxed - more human - than Sam has ever seen him.

“Didn't know you could cook,” Sam says, and Bucky grins a little.

“A lot of things you don't know about me,” he says seriously, stirs the pot on the stove. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Sam agrees. “Smells good.” It's true, it does: buttery tomato sauce, rich and sweet. Bucky sets down the wooden spoon, drains the spaghetti, arranges it into two bowls. It looks laborious and frustrating, working one-handed, but Sam doesn't try to help. Just watches, and looks at the line of Bucky's neck.

“It's nothing special,” Bucky tells him, ladling sauce over the pasta. “Just canned tomato and butter and onions. Turns out pretty good, though.”

It does. It is. Sam eats slowly, joy in it. His body existing again, an animal that needs rest and feeding and movement, and it’s like he’d forgotten, this last week. They’re quiet, at the table, but not awkward. Just listening to each other breathing, the clink of cutlery on plates.

“I learned in Italy,” Bucky says, suddenly. “1943. Just after I’d shipped out. Before Steve was… well, you know. Before I was different, either.”

“How much do you remember?” Sam asks, and Bucky shrugs one-shouldered, a gesture that’s all the more eloquent for the empty space on his left.

“Bits,” he says, like maybe that’s enough. “Steve. My family, a little. Sometimes I get to dreaming, and then I remember more. Always a crapshoot, though, the dreams.”

Yeah. It is. It really is.

 

After dinner, Sam is suddenly restless. Can’t focus on his book, catches himself fidgeting. Bucky looks up, smiles a little.

“Ants in your pants?”

“Come on, man,” Sam says, no malice in it, just a little tired, that’s all, and Bucky laughs, a peal of sound that’s surprisingly sweet, rippling out into the night.

“You want to go for a run?”

“Hell, why not,” Sam says. The sky is clear, no stars yet, just a perfect half-moon hanging too crisp and silver to look real. As long as they keep clear of the perimeter grid, they’ll be fine. A run seems like the best idea. He’s already in sweats, hunts out his running shoes. He’s got them on and laced up while Bucky is still changing his shirt.

“Hey,” Bucky says, looks down at his own shoes and suddenly awkward, “I, uh-”

“No big,” Sam replies, kneels down to tie Bucky’s laces. Double loop bows, tucked under the tongue, and then still on his knees he glances up at Barnes. He looks taken aback, vulnerable and soft and shocked into silence, and Sam smiles, holds out his hand, lets Bucky pull him up to his feet.

They don’t bother to stretch, just take off along the track Steve must have worn, back when he stayed. The perimeter is obvious, big enough that they can run for ten, fifteen minutes without turning. It really is a retreat, Sam thinks, and a precious one.

Bucky keeps pace with him, all long legs and easy rhythm, and at first Sam’s confused by it.

“You can run faster than this,” Sam says between breaths, “I’ve seen you. You can outrun a _car_.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, frowns like it’s obvious. “I’m running with _you_ , though.”

“Shit,” Sam pants, “you’ve got better manners’n Steve, he’s never gonna hear the end of it, that little shit,” and there it is again, Bucky’s laugh, pealing out into the wind and the sky and the trees.

When they get back, they’re both sweaty, flushed through with warmth despite the chill of the night air. Sam calls dibs on the first shower, squawks when the water runs cold. Pokes his head out to discover Bucky shirtless at the sink, wiping himself down with a washcloth and a bar of soap.

“Couldn’t wait,” he smirks when he sees Sam looking. “Wash basin was good enough for us, back in the thirties.”

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Sam argues, “you’re taking a fucking shower, I’m not living with you if you’re gonna be filthy,” and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Hurry the fuck up, then, I’m cold,” he complains, and Sam rinses off the last of the soap, reaches for a towel.

“Come on, water’s still running,” he says. Looks away when Bucky undoes his pants.

He’s tired, after the run, but cleanly so. Like maybe he’ll even sleep tonight. When he steps toward the bedroom, he pauses in the door, looks at Bucky.

“Hey,” he says, thinks a little. “You. Come sleep in here, if you want. You don’t have to, I just.” _You sat at the foot of the bed, and I slept without dreaming_ , he wants to say. _Maybe it’ll_. _Maybe we can help each other_. Bucky hesitates for a minute, gets to his feet.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay,” and they climb into bed with remarkably little awkwardness, both stripped down to undershirts and boxers. Sam leans over to turn out the lamp, and they lie in silence for a minute, side by side and carefully not touching.

“Haven't been in a bed with someone since 1944,” Bucky says solemnly into the darkness, “no getting handsy with me, Wilson, I've got a virtue to maintain,” and Sam starts laughing, can't stop. There's a note of hysteria in it, of course there is, but also just honest _what the fuck is his life_. He doesn't know, most days, how he wound up here. He’s still laughing when he feels sleep crest over him in a long and gentle wave.

Sam wakes up, and it’s the next morning. Light filtering soft over his face, and Barnes’ arm flung out between them, fingertips warm against Sam’s chest. He’s still asleep, face slack with it, hair fluttering with his breath, and Sam doesn’t want to move. Just wants to lie here, in this warmth and softness, and marvel at the small and unfolding joy that is waking up to someone like this. Even Bucky. Especially Bucky.

When Bucky wakes, it's all in a rush. Sam watches it happen, the transition from sleep to alert wakefulness, and then, slow, relaxing back into calm. _Safe_ , like he can't have been for so long. Sam wants to touch his hair, a little.

Bucky's eyes are very blue, when he opens them, and he smiles to see Sam across the pillows. God, it's such a sweet smile, how had Hydra looked at this boy and decided to turn him into their machine. Then he yawns, and Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Gross, dude, you need to brush your teeth.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, all challenge, and then he flings himself at Sam, pushes him back into the pillow using nothing but body weight and the element of surprise, breathes stale morning breath right into Sam's face. He deserves this, thinking Bucky was _sweet_.

 

They don't get better all at once. Recovery isn't linear, Sam knows that. Sam sleeps okay for a couple of nights, and then wakes up a dozen times screaming, hits Bucky in the face from an arm flung out in his sleep.

“ _Ow_ ,” Bucky says, but only once he’s woken Sam up, brought him a glass of water, rested his palm solid and warm and real between Sam’s shoulder blades until Sam’s breathing slows down.

“Sorry, man,” Sam mutters, draws his knees up, rests his head on them for a while.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says, “my nose ain’t even bleeding, you gotta smack me harder next time.”

“Right,” Sam agrees, “okay.”

 _Next time_ , it turns out, is Bucky, not Sam. He skips past nightmares straight to dissociation and flashbacks, and Sam stirs awake to find him sitting up, staring into the dark like it has answers for him.

“Bucky?” he whispers, wonders whether to touch his shoulder, to try and wake him up.

“Please,” Bucky says, voice tiny and cracking, “please, I don’t want- please don’t make me, I don’t want to,” and Sam does touch him, can’t not. Sets his hand over Bucky’s, tightens his fingers, as non-threatening as he can make it, and Bucky turns to him, face wet.

“It’s okay,” Sam murmurs, “you don’t have to, it’s okay, it’s fine, you’re safe.”

“They’re so _little_ ,” Bucky says, “why they gotta be so little, it’s not _right_ ,” and Sam sees he’s bitten through his lip until he’s drawn blood.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, look at me. What’s your name?”

“It-” Bucky starts, frowns, blinks. “It. Bucky. Bucky. My name is. My name is Bucky.” He draws a long, shuddering breath, and Sam leans over to turn the lamp on, to get the glass of water and pass it to Bucky. He drinks slowly, whispers under his breath. _Bucky, my name is Bucky_. Sam waits, yawns a little, but he’s awake now. It’s okay. This is how they do it.

“Tea?” he asks, and Bucky nods. He’s still sitting up in bed, sheets pooled around his hips, when Sam brings back mugs of chamomile from the kitchen. They drink it silently together, and Bucky licks the blood off his lip, breathes like he’s remembering how to be a person, and Sam just waits. Turns the light out, when they’re done, and lets Bucky curl in a little closer. Drags the covers up over his shoulders.

 

He wakes one night to a summer storm passing over them, rain loud on the roof. He’s warm, sleepy, and he just listens for a while, the white noise of it soothing in a way that washes at his soul.

“Cold,” Bucky mutters, and folds himself in against Sam’s back. It’s intimate in a way Sam doesn’t expect; they’re getting so comfortable with each other’s body space, living like this in each other’s pockets, and he doesn’t quite mind. He rolls over, and pulls Bucky in like he can warm him through.

When they wake, the next morning, neither of them say anything. But Bucky doesn’t move away, just tightens his fingers where he’s gripping Sam’s t-shirt, and Sam shrugs internally, goes back to sleep. There’s nothing they need to be awake for so urgently, after all, and he can still hear rain soft outside, blanketing them in.

Three weeks pass, and Sam looks in the bathroom mirror, and sees that his bruises are gone. He's still got dark shadows, hollows in his cheeks, but he touches his face, and sees himself again. When he looks at Bucky over breakfast, he realizes Bucky’s bruises are healed too. Probably sooner than Sam’s. He’s got the serum, after all, and he might not heal as fast as Steve but it’s still accelerated. All their bruises are inside, now, and that’s harder.

 

A month in, Sam's phone buzzes, in his pocket, while he's peeling apples. He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, pulls out his phone. _Steve_.

“Hey, man,” he says, “you're on speaker. Bucky's making me cobbler.”

“Bucky doesn't cook,” Steve says, and Sam can hear the frown.

“He _is_ , I'll send you a photo, you're missing out,” Sam insists, and Bucky stops what he's doing, rubbing butter into flour in a big mixing bowl, grins at Sam.

“Sam was getting too skinny,” he tells Steve, voice pitched loud enough Steve can hear, “I gotta feed him. Wouldn't be a fair fight, otherwise.”

“Don't know if you noticed, but you're down some weight yourself,” Sam points out, and Bucky rolls his eyes like he could still take Sam down. Maybe he could. Sam hasn't been eating like he should, last few weeks.

“I guess things are okay, if you're sniping at each other,” Steve sighs. Bucky shakes flour off his fingers, steps a little closer. Leans his hip against the bench, deliberately close to Sam, and steals a slice of apple. Sam smacks his fingers, and Bucky just laughs, silent, shoves at Sam in a way that’d turn into wrestling, if they weren’t on the phone.

“There's only one bed, Stevie,” he complains, grins around his mouthful of apple. “Betcha didn't think about that, huh.”

“So take the couch cushions and put ‘em on the floor like we did when we were kids,” Steve tells him irritably, “sorry you've gotta live in these _terrible_ conditions, I'll do better on the next ultra-secure safehouse I find at short notice, Jesus _Christ._ ”

“Things are fine,” Sam says, trying to make Steve feel a little better. “Really. We're doing fine.”

“Never known you to lie to me before, Sam Wilson,” Steve says, still weary, and then, in the background, the soft murmur of a woman's voice.

“That Carter?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “look, I gotta go, we've got the President on the line. Trying to figure out the mess of the Accords, convince him Buck’s a victim here. Asylum, maybe.”

“You’d probably have better luck with Trudeau than Harris,” Sam says thoughtfully, and Steve laughs, short and tired.

“Probably,” he agrees. “We might all be Canadian, by the end of the year. Figures, we’ve got Fury’s safehouse there already, I guess it’d be nice if that was legal and all. Hey, take… take care of each other, yeah?”

“We're fine,” Bucky says, and the line goes dead. Sam touches the screen, looks at Bucky’s face.

“I'm glad he's got Sharon,” Bucky says eventually. “What is she, Peggy’s granddaughter?”

“Niece,” Sam replies, hears Bucky laugh like it's a little funny. He supposes it is. Seventy years, and Steve's still got a Carter by his side, as much of a force as Peggy must have been.

“He's guilty,” Bucky says, voice rough.  “He wanted me back for so long, and then- I wasn't the person he missed. I'm not. I can remember, a little, but I'm not him.”

“He's not the same, either,” Sam says, knows it to be true. They're gonna have to figure each other out again, someday, and it's going to hurt. _Hey, remember when_ can only ever take you so far.

“He's still as annoying as ever,” Bucky says darkly, and Sam can't help but laugh.

 

The next morning, Sam wakes up early. Decides he's gonna make his own routine again, a run and then breakfast, and slides out of bed. Barnes doesn't stir, just stays with his head buried half under the pillow, dark hair messy against soft white sheets. As Sam laces up his shoes, Bucky stretches out, rolls into the heat left behind by Sam's body, and Sam smiles a little at the pillow creases down his cheek.

He laps the lake three times, running until his lungs hurt and he's damp with honest sweat, and when he gets back, Bucky is sitting in the sun on the deck, wearing clean grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, drinking a mug of black coffee. His hair is loose, soft-looking, still a little damp from washing, and he squints up at Sam, smiles open and clean.

“Coffee in the pot, if you want some,” he murmurs, and Sam stares down at him, because Bucky's _hair_ , fuck, it's a little wavy, glossy under the warm morning sun, and his eyes are bright steel blue, and his cheeks are smooth, the line of his jaw so sharp Sam might cut himself on the angles. He is, honestly, _devastatingly beautiful._ Sam's a little poleaxed.

“You shaved,” he says, stupidly, and Bucky laughs, touches the back of his hand to his face.

“Yeah, I… You know, I figured I'm not hiding here. Well, I'm _hiding_ , but who's gonna see my face? Other than you, I mean.”

“You better not have used up all the hot water,” Sam says, mouth on autopilot because he's still kind of dazed by this stupid realization that James Barnes is beautiful, when he's not being surly and terrible. Bucky rolls his eyes at him, right on cue.

“You know I didn't, Christ. Go _shower_ , you smell awful, I'll cook breakfast.”

He does. He cooks breakfast. Sam is quiet, when he eats, and can't quite stop looking at Barnes and his face.

It doesn't change anything, realizing. They're still in each other's space, carefully not at each other's throats the way Steve maybe expected them to be. After six weeks, Sam stops expecting Steve to show up at all. They might be here for the next six months, maybe. They've got nowhere to go, nowhere to be, just this little house with its fireplace and gingham curtains and reinforced steel walls. Clint drops in supplies regularly, stays long enough for a coffee before taking off again. It's a weirdly peaceful rhythm, living like this. Like they're the last two people in the world.

 

They're stretched out on the couch one night, quiet in each other's company. Sam's reading, and Bucky is tooling around on a tablet like Wikipedia will give him all the answers. Who knows, Sam thinks, maybe it will. He nudges Bucky's calf with his foot, just to see him look up, and is rewarded with a nose wrinkle and then the kind of smile still takes Sam's breath away, some days.

There's a noise outside, and Bucky goes still, glances over to the door like a cat tracking a sound, alert but not alarmed. Sam reaches for the gun, set idly down on the coffee table and forgotten about, and tiptoes slowly to the door.

Someone knocks.

If it were the CIA, or Hydra, they probably wouldn't be knocking. Sam looks at Bucky, and Bucky looks at Sam, and then he shrugs. Casual, all the lines of him smooth and relaxed, and Sam thinks about the effort Bucky must be making to stay so easy. He opens the door.

“Hi,” Natasha says, flashes a cheeky grin. “I heard you were having a sleepover. Brought marshmallows.” Sam strong-arms her into the cabin, shuts the door, and he _knows_ Natasha, knows she wouldn't let him touch her if she didn't want to, which means she's being deliberately unthreatening, which means. Which means which means which means. Sam runs low at the end. He sits back down, doesn’t see the point of standing, and waits the confrontation out.

Natasha and Bucky are eyeing each other like slightly wary cats. Bucky's on the couch, hasn’t moved, is holding himself very still, but his eyes are wide, steel-grey in the firelight, and Sam suddenly thinks about the planes of James Barnes’ face. How fucking _handsome_ he is, and the waste of using something like that as such a terribly blunt instrument.

“Natashenka,” Bucky says at the end of whatever non-verbal discussion they're having, and Nat blows out a breath, flops down in an armchair all easy grace.

“James,” she says back, raises an eyebrow. “So, what, you remember me now?”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. “Leipzig. You could have taken Steve and me down, and you let us go. I remember.” He watches Nat for another minute, bites his lip, and adds, quiet, “you were the littlest ballerina, once.” Sam’s looking, and he sees Nat’s face crumple, minute, before she’s smooth and arch again.

“Brought you a present,” Natasha tells him, and then she pulls something out of her bag. A notebook, hard-cover, battered red with a black star emblazoned across it. Bucky pulls in a ragged breath like she's holding a bomb, a grenade with the pin pulled loose.

“Where did you-”

“Zemo left it behind,” Natasha says. “It was in UN custody. You'd think they'd destroy a thing like this, wouldn't you? Like nuclear launch codes. The key to a soldier.”

“Wait,” Sam says, “that's-”

“Trigger phrase,” Bucky says, and he's still breathing hard, lashes wet. He looks terrified, wrecked, and so very, very young. “My manual of use. They don't want to destroy it. They want to- to _use-_ ”

“It's a pity,” Natasha says, crisp like she’s laying trip wire, every word neat and deliberate, “that this is the only physical copy.”

“There are back-ups,” Sam guesses, and Nat tilts her head in agreement, something that says _yeah, before I showed up, maybe_. It’s arrogant, it’s Nat shrugging like a steel wall won’t keep her out of Fort Meade, it’s a gesture Sam's seen a hundred times before. He's never loved her so much for it. Her red hair glints copper-blood-dark with the light of the fire.

“There _were_ ,” she agrees. “Digital back-ups are so easy to kill, when you know where to look. Hardly even a challenge. They should be a little less trusting, maybe.”

“There’ll be people who remember,” Bucky says. “Zemo. _You._ You speak Russian. You looked, right?”

“Of course I looked. But I don't want the keys to your head. I've got enough Red Room in my own already.”

“What do we do with it, then?” Bucky asks, and Nat smiles sharp like the very best weapon.

“Burn it,” she says, “reduce it to ashes, I was serious about the marshmallows.”

 

Bucky slides off the couch, sits cross-legged and stares at the fire. Sam can see the tension in his back, his shoulders, the steel-straightness of his spine. He looks at the nape of his neck, wisps of dark hair softly curling where they've missed being pulled up into the bun, and imagines reaching out to touch. Just a little, just careful, just like they're friends. They heard each other scream most nights for two weeks. They've slept side by side, bodies warm at the contact points, for another four. That makes them friends, doesn't it?

Natasha is quiet, watching like she wants to see what happens next, and then Bucky hauls a breath into his lungs, rolls out his shoulder, reaches for the book like he's going to his execution. He holds it, closed, in his lap, for a long time. Staring at the cover, tracing the shape of the star.

“I don't know if I can,” Bucky says. “I don't know if I can look.” He twists to look at Sam, holds it out to him. “Maybe you should? You don't - speak Russian.”

“No, man,” Sam says, and it's not because he's afraid or because he's a coward or because it's too private a thing for Sam to involve himself in. Just a sense of _rightness_ , that Bucky needs to destroy this, the thing used so intimately and terribly against him. The architecture of his undoing, a weapon that transformed him into another weapon. Bucky sighs.

“Yeah, I gotta, don't I?” he says, ruefully, like he's recognizing the truth of it. It still takes him another minute before he opens it to the first page, and Sam can see that he's crying, tears splashing dark on old paper, ink spreading into feathery blots. He sets his hand on the page, and then, slow and deliberate, makes a fist. The paper tears and crumples so easily, and Bucky holds it out, lets a corner take flame.

After that, Bucky goes through page by page, studies each leaf before feeding it to the fire. He talks to Sam, sometimes. Reads snippets of Russian that make him laugh wetly. Natasha is still watching, so silent Sam almost forgets she's there, although one phrase makes her jolt like it's something she knows too. Maybe something terrible. She and Barnes lock eyes, and don't translate.

“ _Oh,_ ” Bucky says after a while. “I think this- yeah. This is.  _Longing._ It doesn't work, when I read it. You think they knew that?”

“It’d defeat the point, if you could self-actualize with your own command structure,” Natasha says, and Sam hears her throat catch, the tiny tremble. Bucky breathes out, and nods.

“The design specs,” he says, tilts the book so Sam can see. “For my arm. They could rebuild. Has Tony seen this?”

“You want him to?”

Bucky's mouth works. “No,” he says eventually, “no, and I - I don't want- I want an arm again, maybe, but not like this. Not by this, or by him.”

“Get rid of it, then,” Sam tells him. “Burn it,” and Bucky rips, and rips, and rips. Pushes the book into the flames, and watches it go up, shoulders tight. Sam can’t see his face, just the line of his spine, but something’s wrong, suddenly. There’s a page caught in his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice; Sam leans down, reaches for him, and Natasha shakes her head. Bucky’s quicker. He drops the paper, catches Sam by the wrist, and god, the _pressure_ , he could grind Sam’s bones until they break just with the force of his grip.

“ _Soldat_ ,” Natasha says, low, and Bucky turns to look at her, watches as she moves quick and elegant from her chair to kneel beside him. Sam’s wrist hurts; his eyes sting with it, but he’s had worse, and this is- this is _something_ , happening, something Nat understands and Sam really doesn’t. He waits.

“So light on your feet,” Bucky says dreamily. “Little sister. Graceful hands. Seemed a pity to show ‘em how to use a knife.”

“Saved my life a dozen times, knowing,” Natasha murmurs, and then she slaps Bucky square in the face. His eyes go round with shock, and he lets go of Sam’s wrist, lets Nat haul him to his feet and push him back onto the couch.

“Sorry,” he breathes, “sorry, _sorry_ , Sam, fuck, I-”

“It’s cool,” Sam says, and Nat picks up the last page, throws it into the fire without looking at it.

 

“Hey,” she says after a while, “you mind if I crash here tonight?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “of course you can,” and Bucky nods.

“Sam’ll even make you hot chocolate,” he says, sly, and Sam kicks him gently across the couch. “What? You will!”

“Just because _you_ want hot chocolate,” Sam says. “What’s stopping you from asking me properly?”

“Sam,” Bucky starts again, stretches out until his feet are in Sam’s lap, “will you please make us hot chocolate?”

“I do have marshmallows,” Nat offers. “And  I don’t mind taking the couch, or the floor. Whatever’s going.” Bucky scowls.

“Christing fuck, Natasha, you think my ma would let me let a lady sleep on the floor? The couch? Go take the goddamn bed already.” Nat blinks at that like she wasn’t expecting it, but she does it. Leans in the bedroom doorframe a few moments later, stripped down to a singlet and a pair of sweats that are probably Bucky’s, and raises an eyebrow.

“There’s only one bed,” she says, and Sam sighs.

“Yeah, you noticed too, huh.”

“What _I_ noticed,” Bucky points out, hopefully, “is nobody’s made any goddamn hot chocolate yet.”

“I’m giving you a pass on being demanding and opportunistic just for tonight, Barnes,” Sam warns him. “Because you dealt with your trauma. _One night_. Don't think you can make it a habit.”

“Three marshmallows in mine, please,” Bucky says, tranquil, and Sam opens the bag, throws a whole handful at him. Bucky gets powdered sugar in his hair. Sam makes hot chocolate, and tries not to look.

 

Natasha goes to bed soon after that, closes the door to the bedroom more like she’s giving them privacy than taking it, and Sam looks at the single couch, and back at Bucky. Raises an eyebrow.

“It’s fine,” Bucky shrugs, “we can sleep head to toe.”

“No,” Sam says five minutes later. “No, god, _no_ , man, this isn’t working, ugh, get your feet out of my face,” and Bucky honest to god _giggles_ from the other end of the couch, wiggles his bare toes under Sam’s chin. He’s got a few inches of height on Sam, and it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter, except when they’re trying to share a couch like kids on a sleepover, and then: it’s the worst. Sam grabs Bucky’s ankle. Bucky keeps giggling.

“Really,” Sam says, trying to keep a straight face. “Really. I can’t believe I was ever scared of you, the great and terrible Winter Soldier.” He runs his fingertips lightly up the instep of Bucky’s foot, under the arch where it’ll be most ticklish, and Bucky tenses up, holds his breath. “Oh,” Sam asks, smirks at him, “is that a _problem_?”

“Don’t,” Bucky says, breathless, “Sam, don’t-” and Sam pauses for a second before tracing his fingers over Bucky’s toes, as feather-light as he can. Bucky squirms, tries to yank his foot away, fights against Sam’s grip. Flails for help before grabbing his pillow and hitting Sam with it as hard as he can.

“Are you _kidding me_ ,” Sam says, because it’s _on,_  and launches himself at Bucky, manages to sit on him. Ducks his wildly punching arm, holds him down, tickles his ribs in earnest. Bucky’s shrieking with laughter, and Sam’s basically crying he’s laughing so hard, and when Bucky manages to break his hold, flips them and starts smothering Sam with his own pillow, it’s kind of, probably, fair.

“ _Boys_ ,” Natasha says, from the bedroom, and they both freeze. “Do I have to come out there?”

“Sam started it,” Bucky says, that little shit, and Sam doesn’t bother to defend himself. Just grabs his pillow back, and flops down against the arm of the couch, pulls Bucky down next to him.

“We’re not sleeping head to toe,” he says firmly, “you’re not putting your fucking feet in my face all night, I don’t care. We’ve slept side by side for weeks.”

“I mean,” Bucky starts, and wriggles in like he’s getting comfortable, “if you’re cool with it, that’s fine by me. More comfortable than the floor, for sure.”

Sam is. Sam’s fine with it. He tugs the blankets up, smoothes Bucky’s hair down so it’s not sticking right into Sam’s face. The couch is old, too narrow for two people to sleep side-by-side, but Bucky burrows closer in against Sam like given the chance for physical contact he’s going to take everything he can get, and Sam suddenly wonders about how touch-starved he must be. It’s enough that he wraps one arm around Bucky’s waist, lets his fingertips rest on bare skin where Bucky’s shirt is still rucked up from Sam tickling him.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, and Bucky nods, sleepy, doesn’t say anything for a while. Sam thinks about trigger phrases, a manual of use, the tight lines of tension in his back and shoulders and neck, and brings his hand up to the nape of Bucky’s neck, presses his fingers into the knots, begins to quietly massage them out. Bucky sighs, and slowly, slowly goes slack like he’s been waiting for hours.

“Sam,” Bucky asks, much later, from where his head is pillowed on Sam's chest, “who was Riley?”

“My wingman,” Sam whispers, hears his voice crack a little. It doesn’t feel like enough, but Bucky nods, and Sam doesn’t stop making the circles with his thumb against Bucky’s pulse-point, and god, he’s so- Bucky is warm against him, and Sam doesn’t remember feeling this happy in a long time. Just bodies, together, and knowing what he says will be understood.

“You watched him fall,” Bucky says, like he knows already. Probably does. It’s been in every one of Sam’s nightmares, after all. “And you loved him.”

“Still do,” Sam agrees. “Maybe always.”

“He’s lucky,” Bucky murmurs, so quiet Sam almost doesn’t hear it, and then he’s asleep, and Sam’s heart feels weird and full and a little aching, just a little.

 

Natasha finds them, in the morning. Doesn’t wake them, just makes coffee with stealth quietness, and Sam blinks awake to find her drinking coffee straight from the pot, leaning against the doorjamb and watching them with mingled amusement and the kind of honest tenderness he knows he wouldn’t usually ever see on her face.

“Don’t you look cosy,” she says, and okay, yes, Bucky’s still draped over Sam’s chest, he’s drooled into Sam’s shirt in the night, he’s snoring softly right against Sam’s throat. It’s painfully adorable. Sam will never, _never_ let Bucky know he thinks this. It’s an effort to get up without waking him, but he manages, just. Rolls Bucky gently back into the couch, tugs the covers up over his shoulders, joins Nat in the kitchen.

“He’s still _sleeping_ ,” she says, a little wonder in her voice, “Christ, Sam, Steve’s gonna cry when he sees.” Sam rolls his eyes, takes the coffee pot out of her hand, pours himself a cup and adds milk and sugar.

“We do have cups, you know,” he tells her, “you’ve been spending too much time with Clint,” and Nat makes a face at that. “Are you serious? You haven’t seen Clint yet? Natasha, go _home_.”

“Laura won’t want to see me,” Natasha says, carefully poised, but Sam _knows_ Natasha, now, knows what her face looks like when she’s admitting something that hurts.

“Not true,” he says, fierce, “not _true_ , Nat, don't you think they miss you? Let her forgive you, at least.”

“I thought, the choice I made, it'd keep us together,” Nat murmurs. Looks down at the mug of coffee Sam's slid into her hands. “I didn't… Zemo was an element I didn't factor in. Didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle. I've been trying to put it back together ever since, figure out where I went wrong.”

“So, what, you've been hanging out with Tony?”

“No,” Nat shrugs. “Tony’s not really… I might have burned that one. I think he's still mad I switched sides. And I knew, too. Of course I knew. I was there with Steve when he learned the truth about Tony's parents, and I've always been better at putting patterns together than anyone else. How could it not have been him, the Soldier, the Asset. Doesn't mean it was Bucky. And that's me saying it, so you know it counts for something.”

“Tony doesn't see it that way,” Sam guesses, and Nat's slow blink is confirmation.

“You know how he is,” she murmurs, and yeah, Sam knows.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, “why did you… I mean, the book, you could have- it was a lot of effort to go to, Natasha.”

“If someone had that over me,” Natasha says, looks at Sam as open as she knows how to be. “You know my history. Where I was trained. If someone had that and could use it, would you want to stop them?”

“Of course,” Sam says. “Of course I would.”

“Yeah,” Nat says, exhales slowly. “That's why. You and Steve, you put your trust in me like that, I can't not.” Sam can't say anything to that. Just drinks his coffee, and lets Natasha rest her head against his shoulder. Watches Bucky sleep, across the room. He always looks so _young_ , asleep. Face barely touched by the last seventy years, even though he desperately needs to shave.

“You know Tony and Rhodey are back in the compound?” Nat asks, and Sam winces. “He's going to be okay, Sam. I mean, for a given value of okay. Tony won't tell me much. Like I said, he's angry. Pepper checks in on Rhodes, though, and I check in on Pepper. But he… it's not on you, is what I'm saying.”

It'd be nice, if Sam believed her. He didn't fire the shot, but it is. It's on him. It was meant for Sam, and it missed, and he was up there just to watch as Rhodes fell.

“What's that phrase you use,” Sam says, frowns as he tries to remember. “There's red in my ledger. That's not going away.”

“No,” Nat sighs, links her arm in his. “No, it never does, does it.”

It never does. Sam's learned to sit with it, maybe. Riley and Rhodes and everything else he's done, it's just a part of him now. Folded away again, packed into that suitcase so very neatly.

“You hear from Steve?” Sam asks, and Nat shakes her head.

“Hear _of_ him,” she says, “what's he trying to do, fix the world single-handedly?”

“Doesn't he always?” Sam jokes. “He's organizing asylum. You could be Canadian, things go well.”

“I make it a point not to attach myself to countries,” Nat says, dry. “Countries don't last.”

“Jeez, Nat, that's heavy, this time of the morning,” Sam teases, and Natasha laughs and laughs until she has to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Banner built this,” she says after a while, looking around the kitchen fondly, maybe a little wistful. “We always talked about coming up here. When we had time. When we could just be us.”

“You didn’t, though,” Sam murmurs, and Nat shakes her head, regret sitting on her skin. Sam hugs her, quick, touches his hand to her hair.

“Go _home_ , Natasha,” he says again, and she smiles like maybe she might even take his advice.

 

Steve calls, the day after Nat leaves, and he doesn't sound so tired, this time. Just impatient, like he's ready for the politics to be over.

“Fury said he's going to send someone your way,” he tells them, “said you can trust them. Said _Bucky_ can trust them, okay.”

“Right,” Sam says, “Okay. How's the President?”

“Deal’s off,” Steve sighs, “turns out there was some janky backroom stuff going on. Better off not talking about it or I'll break the phone.”

“I'm military property,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “They want to transfer the Asset.”

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve mutters, but he doesn't deny it. “Yeah, that's about… Zemo's being extradited to Wakanda to face justice, T’Challa was very insistent. That guy from the UN is pissed. Think he wanted Zemo to help him with some Russian lessons.”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Sam says, the only Russian word he knows, and Bucky laughs, unexpected. “Canada, then. I like Canada. The people are nice. I heard they give you a gallon of maple syrup with your passport, that true?”

“I dunno, I'll make sure to include that point in negotiations.”

“Hey,” Sam realizes, “I never got to give my condolences to T'Challa, you'll pass that on, won't you?” Moving Zemo to Wakanda, he thinks, the only play that'll keep those weaponized words far, far away from anyone who'd want to use them, and feels a burst of gratitude for just how _good a man_ T'Challa is. Sam doesn’t know that he’d have the same grace in the face of all that grief and heavy new weight on his shoulders.

“Yeah, I'll give him your regards. The bird man says he's sorry for being a dick.”

“Hey now,” Sam laughs, but it's fine. It's okay.

“Sam…” Steve murmurs then, and Sam glances at Bucky, catches the tilt of the head that says _it's okay, he wants to talk about me, I'll just be outside._

“Yeah,” Sam says, once Bucky's taken his coffee and closed the door, “what is it?”

“How's Bucky doing, really?”

“I'm not his _therapist,_ Steve,” Sam tells him, takes a deep breath.

“No, I know, I just…” Honestly, Sam isn't sure Steve does know. But he's desperate, and Sam _is_ a therapist. He's just not Bucky's therapist. Doesn't want to be. Doesn't know what he does want to be, for Bucky, at this point.

“He's fine,” Sam says instead of all this. “He really is. Last night we toasted marshmallows and had a pillow fight.”

“Stop messing with me,” Steve huffs, and Sam chuckles.

“It's the honest truth, man. You're missing out. Bucky's ridiculously ticklish, you know that? He started a war he had no chance of winning.”

“Jeez, I leave the two of you together for a couple months and you're twelve years old,” Steve mutters, but he sounds wistful, and Sam closes his eyes.

“Come home soon, then,” he offers. “You know we miss your speeches, round here.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Yeah. Once I get our Welcome to Canada maple syrup, I’ll be there.”

 

When Sam hangs up, he goes outside, bangs the screen door deliberately loud. Bucky looks up at him from where he's sitting on the deck - his favorite spot, right in the morning sun, long legs stretched out in front of him - and smiles, just a little.

“Steve jealous of how good a time we're having?”

“You know,” Sam says, settling down next to Bucky with a sigh, stealing the last of his coffee, “I think he is, actually.” Bucky sighs, lets his head fall onto Sam's shoulder like he's tired.

“He never did know when to quit,” he says. “It was the same back then, too. I was ready to give up, you know. Go home. They'd have let me, if I told them what- you know, what Zola did to me. I was a POW, and I was injured. I could’ve gone home, spend some time invaliding. But Steve asked me, and I wouldn't have said no. Couldn't have.” He yawns, closes his eyes, tilts his face to the sun. “Glad he didn't ask, this time. I just wish he'd give himself the same goddamn luxury.”

“You know Steve,” Sam says, and Bucky laughs.

“Yeah, he's not _Steve_ unless he's martyring himself for the cause. He'd have died for me, in Siberia. Came pretty close. I guess this isn't so bad, in comparison.”

“He won't know what to do, when we get the asylum, and all we gotta do is sit still and do nothing at all.”

“No,” Bucky agrees, “he won't. We're doing pretty well at it though, aren't we?”

“Pretty well,” Sam says, and wonders if Barnes is going to fall asleep on his shoulder.

He doesn't, apparently. Reaches out, instead. Touches the ring of bruises around Sam's wrist, fingers carefully gentle over Sam's pulse.

“This was me,” he says, sounding hollowed out.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Yeah, it was.” He doesn't want to minimize it - it was, it _was_ Bucky, his hand did this, and it's the least of the injuries Bucky's ever given him - but it doesn't matter, either. It's okay. Sam's okay, or getting there, and Bucky's so complexly human in a way Sam's heart is full of, and it'll- it'll be okay, maybe.

“God, it just - it happens every time, huh,” Bucky whispers, wraps his fingers around Sam's wrist, lines them up neatly with the bruises. He's still being so gentle, it doesn't ache at all. “I was gonna- before we came here, before I knew this place was an option, I was thinking about asking Steve to get me back in cryo. Figured T’Challa might know a way, might have been willing to keep me on ice.”

“To keep everyone safe,” Sam says, and Bucky nods. “Steve would hurt over it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “but he'd cope. He has _you_ , at least, and he's big on me making my own choices. If I said it was the best thing for me, he'd let it happen. He wouldn't be happy, but he'd let it.”

“Do you want to, still?” Sam asks, and feels it cold in his own chest, ice spreading. Bucky glances away, clenches his jaw very briefly.

“I don't know,” he sighs. “Some days, yes. Some days… I don't know.”

“Don't,” Sam says, and it's not rational, or anything, not an opinion he's come to from careful thought. It's just, _don't,_ urgent and true, and he hears it in his voice almost as soon as he thinks it.

“No?” Bucky asks, and Sam shakes his head.

“Don't,” he says again, and turns to face him, touches Bucky's cheek with his free hand, quick and light. “Forget about Steve. _I_ wouldn't be happy.”

“You don't like me,” Bucky protests, “you _said_ ,” and Sam can't tell whether he's messing with him or not.

“Oh,” he says, “I said that, did I?” and Bucky's eyes are bright, he's definitely messing with Sam, he's as sweetly earnest as Steve at his worst. “Well,” Sam says, slowly, “I got some time to reconsider.” They stay like that for a long moment, Bucky's fingers still light on Sam's bruises, Sam cradling Bucky's cheek, and Sam doesn't quite know what might happen next.

He does. He does know. He wants to kiss Bucky, wants it so _much,_ is it weird that he's in love with his best friend's best friend when they both still love Steve, a little, or more than a little. Sam doesn't know. He only knows he's gonna lean in, and touch his mouth to Bucky's, and see where that takes them.

Bucky's eyes go wide, and then he's pulling himself away, folding himself in until he's carefully unthreatening.

“We've got company,” he says, neutral, and Sam turns, sees the man walking towards the house. Fury’s guy, he guesses, and he's got the worst timing in the whole world.

 

Sam is deeply suspicious of this guy - Phil, he says, doesn't give a last name - not least because he's got _agent_ written all over him even though he’s not in a suit, just jeans and a soft-looking button-up and aviator sunglasses. He’s blandly, easily professional, doesn’t stare at Bucky or even look twice at him, and Sam knows, instinctively, that Phil’s worked with a lot of people like this, for a long, long time.

“Fury send you?” he asks, and Phil nods. Doesn’t shake hands.

“Said I might be able to help,” he says, “although, honestly, I think I already did. Enjoying the Retreat?”

“ _You_ had the keys,” Sam guesses, and Phil smiles.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I did.”

“You want a cup of coffee?” Bucky asks, voice low, and he’s holding himself just a little behind Sam, not so much that it’s obvious but enough that Sam notices. Phil does too, looks away like he’s being polite. He’s very polite, this guy. Sam’s suspicious, but he’s warming to him. Maybe he’s just got a good face.

“Sure,” he says easily, “coffee would be great.”

In the house, Phil’s face does a thing that Sam doesn’t quite understand. Crumples, just a little, like he’s remembering something. Bucky notices it too, nudges Sam’s knee under the table.

“You come here before?” Sam asks, slides a mug of coffee across the table. Phil sips, looks around.

“Yeah, once or twice. Had to clean it up after the last time, you can hardly see the dents from the battering ram.” Sam doesn’t know if that’s a joke; he drinks his coffee, and watches Phil, sees him glance at Bucky.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he says, very gentle, and Bucky winces a little.

“You know who I am,” he mutters. “Fury trusts you, so I guess I trust you. You look like you know Steve, maybe, and probably he trusts you too. So what I’m trying to say is, Bucky’s fine, okay. I haven’t- I haven’t been that guy in a long time.”

“Bucky,” Phil says, and smiles to himself like it’s precious. “Okay. Look, I’m just. I’m going to level with you here, because this is awkward.” Then he’s rolling up his sleeve, and grips his left wrist, _twists_ , and his hand - his prosthetic, Sam corrects himself - clicks off in one smooth motion. Bucky stares.

“How…” he says, and stops, and Phil grimaces.

“I grabbed something I shouldn’t have grabbed. My agent had to take quick action. Lost a hand, saved my life. On balance, it worked out.”

“It… I didn’t even notice it wasn’t real,” Bucky says, maybe a little awe-struck. “Can I…”

“Oh yeah,” Phil agrees, slots it back into place. “Go ahead.” Bucky reaches out, strokes his fingers across it, and his face looks yearning, suddenly desperate.

“Where can I get one,” he asks, low and urgent, and Phil smiles slow and easy.

“Funny you should say that,” he says. “We've got one already built.”

 

They go with Phil, and honestly, it feels strange to be leaving the cabin. They’ve been here so long it’s like they forgot the rest of the world exists around them.

“You can stay,” Bucky says to Sam, like it’d be okay. “If you want, I mean. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Sam says, flatly, and Bucky’s face fills with relief. “Besides,” Sam adds, “Steve told me he needed me to go with you, when he put us here. That means keeping an eye on you, from where I’m standing.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but when he shoves Sam’s arm his fingers stay for longer than necessary, like he’s maybe clinging to Sam, just a little. _Touch starved_ , Sam thinks again, and folds Bucky into a hug. Tries not to think about what might happen if he ever took his eyes off Bucky, where Bucky might disappear to, or who might disappear him.

There’s a quinjet, parked just inside the perimeter. Sam raises an eyebrow, because he’s beginning to have thoughts about where Phil might come from, who he might represent. He’d always wondered, if Fury had really let Steve burn SHIELD right down.

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, looking at Sam like he knows what he’s thinking, “we’re what’s left. Or what got rebuilt. I promise, we’re definitely not Hydra. The opposite.”

“That mission in Sokovia,” Sam guesses. “You’re the ones who got the info. Who fed it to the Avengers.”

“Yeah, that was us. We do what we can. The Avengers aren’t always around. Maybe less, nowadays. My team’s pretty good at what they do, though.”

On the jet, Bucky is silent. Gritting his jaw, like he doesn’t know what they’re in for. Sam realizes, with a shock, that this Bucky, surly and cautious and _fucking terrified_ , isn’t what he’s used to anymore. On their own, Bucky is calm. Open and tender and a total little shit, usually, but not- not this. He doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand over Bucky’s, squeezes gently, and feels Bucky relax, maybe, a little.

They get to SHIELD, an underground base that feels too familiar, somehow, and Phil looks at them both.

“This is going to take a day or two, maybe,” he says. “We’ve got bunks available, you can go take a moment, or…”

“Just take me to the lab,” Bucky mutters, “it’s fine, I want-”

“Okay,” Phil says. “Okay. This way, then.”

There are fewer staff than Sam expects, on the way. He wonders if Phil’s made arrangements, or if they’re running a skeleton crew, or a combination of the two. The lab techs, scientists, whatever, seem like children, excitable and breathless, and Sam has to resist the urge to actually _growl_ at the Scottish kid - Fitz, he’d introduced himself - when he reaches for Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says instead. Flicks his eyes at Phil, and then at Bucky. “Watch it, okay. Just- go easy, man.”

“Right,” Fitz says, chastened. “Right, okay, yeah.”

“I can take off my shirt,” Bucky offers. “If that makes things easier.”

“Yeah, we just, we’ve got to scan the existing fitting, you know?” Fitz explains, and Bucky nods, pulls off his shirt, sits down on the lab bench. “I won’t touch,” Fitz says, “I’m going to use this to scan the internal mechanism, okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “Fine. Do it. It’s fine.” He glances at Sam, and then looks off into the middle distance, eyes glazing over. Dissociation, Sam recognizes, and leans back against the wall, tucks himself out of the way of the scan.

“He’s different than I expected,” Phil says to him, quietly, as Fitz and the other scientist - Jemma, sweet in a way Sam approves of - complete the scans. “I heard what happened in Vienna.”

“And in Siberia?” Sam asks. Phil shakes his head.

“We were… preoccupied. It was Stark, though?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, letting a little anger bleed into his voice. “Yeah, it was Stark.”

“I should have tazed him when I had the chance,” Phil mutters. Sam laughs.

“Man, I don’t know when that was, but maybe it’d have done him some good.”

“Probably not,” Phil says, lightly. “But you’re doing okay, now?”

“Define okay,” Sam shrugs. “We’re alright. Not so many nightmares, and nobody’s trying to put us in jail or worse, so.”

“That counts as okay,” Phil agrees. “I went down, a while back. Just before New York happened. No nightmares, that counts as okay.”

“Wait,” Sam says, looks at him again. “New York. You. You’re. Agent Coulson, right?” Phil ducks his head like he’s _embarrassed,_ maybe, and Sam frowns. “You know Steve still thinks you’re dead?”

“A lot of people think I’m dead,” Coulson says. “And I did die. For a little while, at least. I’m sorry, about Steve. I didn’t want to lie to any of them. But keeping this team running, that’s more important than full transparency.”

“You gotta tell him,” Sam says, too tired to be angry on Steve’s behalf, but unhappy just the same. “Too many people in his life, he thinks are dead and turn out not to be.”

“Yeah,” Coulson agrees, looks at Bucky. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

When they finish the scans, Sam has to touch Bucky’s arm to get his attention. He snaps to, blinks up at Sam and pulls in a long, shuddering breath.

“Come on,” Sam says, “you can get dressed, buddy,” and helps Bucky on with his t-shirt, wraps a hoodie around his shoulders.

“D’you want a cup of tea?” Jemma asks, and Bucky nods.

“Sugar, please,” he says quietly, and Jemma smiles, disappears off to wherever their kitchen is.

“So, here’s the thing,” Fitz says, throwing the scans up into a display. “The arm, your arm, it’s been sheared off _here_ , but all the neural connections are still there. It’s wired in, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, rough. “Screwed into my collarbone. Reinforced down my spine.”

 _Jesus Christ_ , Sam thinks, and has to take a breath.

“Can you… I mean, you sealed off the loose wires, closed the raw edge with, what, epoxy? But don’t you still get neural feedback?”

“It buzzes,” Bucky agrees. “Like white noise, kinda. Same way it used to feel a long way back. Just after the- the procedure. Twitching in my fingers, even though they’re not there.”

“A ghost limb,” Coulson says, like he knows the feeling, and Bucky looks at him, nods thoughtfully.

“Okay,” Fitz says, “okay, we can- I think we can work with that. I think, maybe, the best option is to interface the prosthetic we developed with what’s left behind. That’s less invasive than trying to remove what’s there and rebuild from scratch.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Fine,” and Sam sees the panic on his face like he’s afraid.

“We can take a break, right?” he asks, and Bucky shakes his head, takes the mug of tea from Jemma.

“It’s fine, seriously,” he says, “I want- can we just get it done.”

“Actually,” Fitz tells them, “I need to modify the tech so it’ll fit. That’ll probably take me and Mack all day, so. We’re done here, for now.”

 

When Coulson takes them to a spare bunk, he doesn’t even pretend they’re going to be in separate rooms. Just shows them to a room that’s neat and impersonal, double bed made up with clean linens.

“You’re welcome to join us for dinner, if you want,” he says. “The base is secure, you’ll be safe.” When he leaves, shutting the door behind him, Bucky sits down like all the air’s gone out of him.

“I need…” he says, and frowns. “Actually, I just need a nap? Will you-”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, of course,” and kicks off his shoes, sets his jacket on the dresser. Bucky strips down to his plain white tank and sweats, gets under the covers, and Sam follows suit, lies down next to him. They’re curved in toward each other like parentheses, a space between them for breath, and Sam thinks about closing the distance. It’s difficult, somehow. It feels like it’s been a day much longer than twelve hours. Like this morning, in the sunshine, Bucky’s fingers on his wrist and all their longing laid out between them, was a hundred years ago.

“God,” Bucky chokes, “god, why is it so-” and Sam takes a breath, hauls Bucky in closer until he’s resting in the hollow of Sam’s shoulder, his mouth near Sam’s throat.

“I hate this,” Bucky confesses, “Sam, I hate it.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I know you do.” He traces his fingers along the seam of Bucky's shoulder. The demarcation between metal and flesh. Bucky shivers.

“You don't have to do this,” he says, quiet. “We can go home. We can figure something else out.”

“No,” Bucky whispers, eyes closed.”No, I… I want to. I gotta. Besides, it was made just for me. Be a waste if I don't take them up on all that effort.”

They sleep, that afternoon. Don't sleep that night. If things were different, Sam thinks, maybe they'd be- maybe they'd fall onto each other and into each other, a desperate drag of skin on skin, feeling something like they're human. Hands tight in Bucky's hair, mouths bruising with how hard they'd kiss. He can feel it radiating off Bucky, and it's an effort not to just let it happen.

He doesn't. He won't. He wants this, _has_ wanted this, but he's not gonna kiss Bucky for the first time in an underground base surrounded by stone and SHIELD secrets. Not gonna do it while they're afraid. If it happens, when it happens, Sam wants it to be joyful.

 

To connect the new arm, get everything aligned, it involves monitoring Bucky's brain activity. Electrodes in contact points along his forehead, and Bucky grits his jaw and breathes. Looks up at Sam, grins softly.

“This gets me a pass to be demanding and opportunistic again, right?”

“I guess,” Sam agrees, because yeah, yes, dealing with seventy years of body autonomy trauma and pain qualifies for a bit of being demanding, god does it. “What d’you want? Hot chocolate? Pancakes? Me cooking dinner for the next two weeks?”

“I'm reserving my decision,” Bucky tells him. “Don't want to limit my options. Might want a lot of things, once I've got two hands to take em again.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, tilts his head. “Like what, huh?”

Bucky's eyes glint, and he drags his gaze thoughtfully down Sam's body, and Jesus god, they're _flirting,_ that's Bucky's coping mechanism to get through this, Sam's life twists stranger than he can imagine some days.

“A shirt that buttons,” he says after a minute. “Pants without an elastic fuckin’ waistband. And then we'll see.”

Coulson, in the corner, coughs like he's smothering a laugh. Bucky glares at him.

“Go on,” he says, “come on, let's get this done.”

 

It's not so simple, of course it's not, it takes hours and hours of careful work, but Bucky grits his way through. Maybe it’s even worth it for the first time he curls and uncurls his fingers, looks at them with disbelief. Touches his hand to Sam’s knee, and his eyes widen.

“It’s warm,” he says, “it- you’re _warm_.”

“Yeah, it has heat sensitivity sensors,” Fitz says. Bucky examines his palm, his nails, the pads of his fingers, with something like wonder.

“It really does look like it’s real, huh.”

“That’s the idea,” Fitz agrees. “We, uh. If you stayed a few more days, we could look at grafting a patch over the metal. It wouldn’t be perfect, but…” Bucky squints down at his shoulder, the line of scarring and then metal and then smooth new flesh, shrugs slowly.

“Naw,” he says. “You know, I kind of like it. Not perfect.”

“It’ll take a few days to get used to the mechanics,” Fitz warns. “You’ll probably have an easier time than- than, uh…”

“Than me,” Coulson says, and Jemma nods.

“Yes. The neural connections, they’re far more advanced than anything we could have done. Extremely invasive, we _wouldn’t_ have, it’s not… but anyway, they’re there, so we used them. I think you’ll find it fairly smooth.” Bucky rolls out his shoulder, rotates his arm in the socket. Listens to the tiny mechanical noises in the joint.

“What’s… how strong is it?” he asks, frowns at the hand.

“Strong enough. Twice the average grip, maybe?”

“Can you change that?” he asks, and Fitz nods.

“Just diagnostics. But, _why_?”

“I’m tired,” Bucky says, “of being a weapon.”

 

Coulson offers for them to stay longer. _Meet our team_ , he says, but Sam looks at Bucky, and thinks of their cabin, and shakes his head.

“Thanks, man,” he says, “but honestly, I think we just want to go home. Next time, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Coulson agrees. “Next time. And when you talk to Steve, tell him you can’t stay in the Retreat forever, yeah?”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Sam sighs. “I think we’re moving to Canada.”

“Free maple syrup for life, I heard,” Coulson says, deadpan, and Sam snickers.

“You’ll keep in touch, right? I mean, I think we’re out of the game, at least for now, but… I never knew SHIELD before it fell. Seems like you’re doing good, here.”

“Trying,” Coulson says. “Doing our best.” He looks fleetingly, terribly sad, and Sam wondered what’s happened, how recent it might have been. _Preoccupied_ , he remembers Coulson saying, like something big went down here, maybe. Too many things he’ll never know, he thinks, and lets the moment pass.

 

Getting home feels too good, somehow. Too familiar. Sam goes for a long run, wears himself out. There are leaves turning rust-colored on the trees, and he realizes summer’s almost over. Soon it’ll be snowing here. He wonders if they’ll still be around, if they’ll tuck themselves snug into the little house, live out the winter the same way they’ve gotten through so far.

When he gets back, the sky streaking red and gold and indigo, Bucky’s stretched out on the couch, fast asleep and snoring so loud Sam has to laugh. He’s still got one shoe on. Sam looks at him for maybe longer than he should, and then goes to shower. Thinks about leaving Bucky just to sleep, and then sighs, prods him from the couch to bed. He’s entirely too soft-hearted, maybe, but that couch is the worst to sleep on. Sam’s back still hurts, after the last time.  

Turns out, Sam discovers the next day, Bucky with both hands is an unholy fucking terror.

He lies down on his stomach, stretches out in the sun, and starts out small. Props himself up on one elbow, and pokes Sam in the thigh, just to watch him twitch in annoyance.

“Stop it,” Sam says, not looking up from his book, and Bucky goes still for a while before walking fingers slowly up Sam's arm. Not quite skin, but close enough, when they reach the curve of Sam's neck, that it _goddamn_ _tickles_.

“Seriously, quit it,” Sam says again, and Bucky drops his hand away, closes his eyes, looks like a paragon of fucking innocence. Sam's not fooled. He reads his book, and waits, and not five minutes later feels Bucky slowly, slowly pushing his fingers under the hem of Sam's shirt. Tracing his nails over Sam's hip, and oh god, it tickles and it's great and Sam cannot take it.

“I'll throw you into the lake, if you don't quit it,” Sam says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Oh yeah? Make me.”

“If you just want to fight, you could have said,” Sam says, lays down his book. “You'll regret asking them to dial back the strength, I promise.”

“You _said_ , I could be demanding,” Bucky complains. “Here I am, demanding.”

“What do you want?” Sam asks, pretending like he's unaffected. Gazing off at the lake, the softly ruffled surface of it. Bucky squints at him.

“I dunno,” he says, “what’ve you got?”

 _Everything,_ Sam wants to say, _you can have everything, fuck, don't you know by now_. _Just come get it._ He swallows. Blinks back at Bucky.

“I will push you in, don't think I won't,” he says easily, and Bucky laughs, shoves him, and then, inevitably, they're both overbalancing straight off the end of the jetty and into waist-deep water.

“Fuck,” Sam swears, “ _fuck_ ,” because it’s cold, it’s awful, it’s everything he didn’t want, and Bucky just grabs him, pulls him under again. Sam fights his way to the surface, so steaming mad he’s surprised it’s not just boiling right off him, and grabs Bucky to duck him under. Bucky blinks, hair in his face, and Sam just suddenly cannot take it for another goddamn minute. Yanks him in, and seals his mouth over Bucky’s like he’s wanted to do for so long.

His lips taste like lake water, clean and coldly mineral, and Sam kisses hard, kisses until their mouths are hot against each other. Bucky makes a quiet, desperate noise, drags Sam's wet shirt up and off. Presses their bodies together. It's _freezing,_ in the water, prickling over Sam's skin like needles, and god, how has this taken so long.

“If you're doing this because you feel sorry for me,” Bucky says against Sam's mouth, “Sam, I swear, if you're doing this because you _pity_ me, I-”

“Man, shut the hell up,” Sam tells him, “I thought you were _smart_ , Barnes,” and Bucky pulls back, stares at him. His eyes are wide, drops of water clinging to his lashes and cheeks, and his mouth is kiss-swollen, and fuck, _fuck_ , Sam is in so deep.

“You-”

“Yeah, don't make me say it,” Sam says, feels like it must be all over his face already.

“You- oh, thank Christ,” Bucky gets out, and it's prayerful. “I thought maybe it was just me.”

“Seriously,” Sam manages, “ _seriously_ , Bucky, how long-”

“I don't know, I didn't- When you said you loved Riley, still. When we woke up and you looked at me, all… When you wouldn't move your seat, _fuck_ , I don't-”

“Oh,” Sam says, “oh, _oh_ , god, oh god,” and he’s dragging Bucky up the shore, up to the house, because it’s cold, they’re both cold, they’re both soaking wet, and he needs them to be able to keep going without catching fucking pneumonia while they’re at it.

 

They leave puddles of lake water all over the floor, strip each other out of wet jeans, have to keep stopping to kiss each other like it’s too important to wait another minute, another second. They’re still in the living room when Bucky gets his hand on Sam’s dick, and even as Sam’s still prickling with cold, he feels himself burn up at the touch. He pushes and pushes, manages to get them into the bedroom, and Bucky shoves him down onto the bed, pins him, grins down at him all sharp teeth.

“Your hair is dripping on me,” Sam complains, because even as he feels like his heart is beating outside his chest it’s kind of hard to ignore the months of history they have with being shits to each other, and Bucky shifts back, straddles Sam’s hips, leans over to grab a hair tie. Sam just _stares_ , can’t not, and Bucky’s smile gets softer.

“Like what you see?” he asks, and then without waiting for a reply he’s sliding down Sam’s body to his dick, mouthing over the head of it. Sam gasps loud like a shout, feels Bucky’s hands grab his hips and hold him down, and then everything is just hot and wet and, _god_ , Bucky’s mouth, his tongue, he just- he wants and wants. Wants to thrust up into it, feel it hit the back of Bucky’s throat. Wants his hands in Bucky’s hair. Wants to feel him moan around it. His orgasm comes up so fast he’s blindsided by it, a freight train that hits him all at once, and Bucky swallows and swallows, keeps going until Sam’s tearing up he’s so oversensitive.

“God,” he says, when he can breathe. “My _god_.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s the first blow job I’ve given since the forties, so I’m taking that as a compliment,” Bucky tells him, smug, and Sam takes another breath, drags Bucky up by the hair so he can kiss him. His mouth tastes of Sam. It’s- god, it’s good.

When he gets his hand wrapped around Bucky’s dick, palms it slow, Bucky’s eyes widen and widen, all blue like a deep, deep lake. Sam kisses and kisses him, drags noises out of him with every stroke of his palm.

“Want you to fuck me,” Bucky murmurs, gasps for breath, and Sam has to laugh.

“Man, I didn’t bring any condoms, did you?”

“No,” Bucky says, “no slick, either, _fuck_ ,” and Sam squeezes a little harder, rubs his thumb up over the vein under the head.

“I’ll just have to use my mouth,” he whispers into Bucky’s ear, “work you open with my tongue, get you nice and wet, ready for me,” and that’s it, Bucky is coming in a series of gasping breaths, hot and messy over Sam’s hand and his stomach and the bed.

“Oh-” he says, “Sam-” and _clings_ , skin and metal and brand-new technology all blood-hot against Sam’s chest.

 

They lie together for a while, listening to each other’s breathing even out, and Bucky’s just stroking his hand down Sam’s side, a long repetitive gesture that has Sam feeling so chill he might melt under Bucky’s touch. Getting up is too hard.

“Where are you going?” Bucky asks, like Sam might actually be _going_ somewhere. Sam kisses his forehead, ignores the frown Bucky makes at that.

“I just gotta pee, okay, don’t miss me too much.”

In the bathroom, he spots the jar of coconut oil, the stuff he uses on his hair, and thinks, _yes_. Climbs back into bed and pushes Bucky down on his stomach. Melts a handful of oil in his palms, and begins to work his way slowly from Bucky's shoulders down.

“Holy Jesus _god_ ,” Bucky groans. Sam digs his thumbs into the knots under Bucky's shoulder blades, massages them out slow and easy. Runs fingers back up the nape of his neck into his hair, his scalp. Leans in to press a kiss to the tender skin behind his ear, and can't resist grazing his teeth over it, just a little. Bucky shivers, and Sam moves lower. His spine, all the spots he can see are holding tension. Works so slow and gentle and easy, listens to Bucky sigh, feels him relax into it. Knot by knot, he dissolves under Sam’s fingers until he’s lax, all loose tendons and soft breath.

Sam spends hours, Bucky going soft and pliant under his hands. When he trails down to Bucky's ass, his thighs, Bucky lets his legs fall apart with a sigh. Sam runs slick fingers up the cleft of his ass, light over his hole, and hears Bucky gasp.

“Fuck,” he slurs, sounding _gone_ , floating with it, and Sam begins to finger him open just as slow and easy as everything else. Leans in, uses his mouth and his fingers until Bucky is loose and wet, sobbing for breath, and then Sam pulls back, and slides in.

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky sighs, just a gust of air, and Sam’s gonna do this slow. He leans down, presses a kiss to the vertebrae at the nape of Bucky’s neck. Another kiss behind his ear, the curve of his cheek. He rolls his hips, sinks in deeper until he’s bottomed out. Drags his dick out and back in, the head of it catching just a little. Bucky keeps making noises, little sounds that are too soft even to be moans, and every one sticks in Sam’s heart.

“You’re so good,” Sam whispers. “God, you’re so good.”

“Sam,” Bucky gets out, “I want-”

“What do you want?” Sam asks, thrusts into him again. “You can have it, I promise, anything you want, what is it?”

“Wanna see your face,” Bucky slurs, “ _please_ ,” and yes, _yes_ , that’s, yes. Bucky gasps a little when Sam pulls out, moans like he’s lost something, but then he’s rolling over, all his limbs slow and heavy, and Sam sinks straight back in, watches Bucky’s eyes flutter closed.

“Baby,” Sam says, soft, and any other time Bucky would roll his eyes, but now he just smiles sweet and kisses Sam again, pulls him down into him.

Bucky’s dick is hard against his stomach, and Sam licks into Bucky’s mouth. “You should touch yourself,” he suggests, “I want to hear you moan,” and Bucky moans just at that, but he _does_ , he touches himself, fingers so slick with pre-come they slide over his dick with an obscene noise. “Yeah,” Sam says, “baby, yeah, that’s, god, _look_ at you,” and Bucky’s smile gets wider like he loves Sam seeing, like he loves putting on a show.

Sam shifts a little, changes the angle, and when he shoves back in a little harder, Bucky makes a noise so good Sam does it again, watches Bucky’s pupils blow out huge and black.

“I’m gonna- fuck, Jesus, I’m gonna come,” Bucky gasps, and does, comes in a rush, and Sam’s about to pull back when Bucky grabs his hips, tugs him in. “Don’t,” he says, voice wrecked, “don’t stop, god, don’t _stop_ , I want to feel it, I want to feel you,” and Sam looks at him for a second like he needs to check that Bucky’s really telling the truth. “ _Please_ ,” Bucky says, and that’s it, Sam slams back into him, and Bucky just shudders around him. Bucky’s breathless like he’s aching for it, and Sam slides his fingers through the mess on his belly, lifts them to Bucky’s mouth, watches him lick them clean.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Sam chokes, and Bucky whines high in the back of his throat like he’s oversensitive, and they could have, they could have been doing this for so long, it’s so- it’s-

When Sam comes, he feels like he’s falling. Up there just to watch. Everything bursts around him, and it’s the best goddamn thing, and he’s just, he’s _falling_ , and he never wants to stop.

 

Sam’s very nearly asleep, sweat drying on his skin, when he realizes, all in a rush.

“Oh-” he says, “oh _shit_ ,” and basically trips over himself in his rush to find his jeans, still sopping wet in a pile on the kitchen floor.

“What,” Bucky calls, “what’s the matter?” and Sam comes back into the bedroom, cellphone in hand. It’s dead, of course it’s dead, it took a dunk into the lake just like they did, Steve is going to _kill_ them-

“Steve is totally going to kill us,” Bucky agrees, “shit, was that the only secure line?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, it was. Fuck, I dunno, I’ll try leaving it to dry in a bowl of rice a few days, that might work.”

“ _Or_ ,” Bucky suggests, “it might prompt Steve to actually come _take us home_.”

“You want to go home _right_ now?” Sam asks, and Bucky gazes over at him, smiles slow and easy.

“No,” he says, “nah, staying right here seems pretty good. Get back over here, Wilson, I wanna put my mouth on you some more.”

 

The phone revives after three days, which is a goddamn relief and a half because it rings pretty much as soon as Sam gets it to turn on.

“We’re fine,” he answers, like he can preempt Steve’s worry. “Steve, we’re totally fine, don’t-”

“Thank _Christ_ ,” Steve says, “I called this morning and you didn’t- God, Sam, I thought something had gone wrong, what the _fuck_.”

“Bucky pushed me into the lake,” Sam tells him, smirks at Bucky’s outraged expression, and Bucky rolls over from where he’s lying on the floor beside Sam. Bites him, hard, right on the hipbone, and then drags his tongue over the teeth marks. Sam holds back the noises he wants to make, drags Bucky up to avoid any more biting while he’s on the phone with Steve, because  _come on_.

“He _pushed you into the lake_ ,” Steve repeats, and sighs, hollow. “You know what? I don’t even want to know.”

“Sorry, Stevie,” Bucky offers, “I didn’t know he had a phone in his pocket, I’d have made him drop it if I’d known,” and Sam thinks, somehow, that this won’t placate Steve one bit.

“I should just leave you there,” Steve says, “I swear to god, I should just leave the both of you there for the rest of your miserable lives, it’d serve you right.”

“So we can come home?” Bucky asks, with what is maybe an admirable lack of appreciation for tone and context clues. Steve sighs again like he’s reconsidering.

“Yes,” he says, “yes, you can come home, we’re all Canadian, it’s going to be a joy. Clint’ll come get you in a day or two.”

“No rush,” Bucky says casually. Slides two fingers down Sam’s side just light enough to tickle, grins at him all bright-eyed like he’s about to start some mischief, and Sam’s suddenly thinking he should never have started a thing with James Barnes, because he’s basically the worst. “We’re good here.”

“I really don’t know that you are,” Steve says, “frankly I’m amazed the cabin’s survived you both this long,” and then he hangs up, obviously still pissed about the whole thing. Sam feels a little bad, maybe.

“Ain’t that the damn truth,” Bucky says, “you hear that? We clearly have to trash this place with athletic sex, Sam. Steve _expects_ it of us.”

“I really don’t think-” Sam starts, and Bucky climbs into his lap, pins Sam’s wrists down like he’s just challenging Sam to throw him off, and Sam’s gone, he’s just- he’s totally, one hundred percent undone.

When Clint shows up a couple days later, he takes one look at them and starts laughing.

“What,” Bucky says, petulant, “ _what_ ,” and Clint clutches his ribs, bends over, wheezes for breath.

“I thought Nat was _kidding_ ,” he says, and Sam feels himself flush.

“Natasha is a damn gossip,” he mutters. Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, Christ,” he says, “Barton, don’t-”

“Whatever,” Clint shrugs. “Not my business. Come on, let’s go home.”

 

Bucky goes quiet, on the quinjet. Thoughtful, a little wary, like he’s not sure what to expect.

“Do you think…” he starts, softly, and swallows. “I mean, Sam, I just- do you think Steve’s gonna…”

Sam doesn’t know what Steve’s gonna. He swallows too, reflexive, and nods, touches Bucky’s arm.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “You know he just wants you to be happy, man.”

“And I am,” Bucky agrees, “I really am, it’s just…”

Yeah. Sam knows. It’s just, it’s complicated, is all. They land the jet, and walk back into that same old farmhouse, and it feels about a million years since they left, and it’s stupid but Sam’s heart is in his throat, just a little. Steve’s in the kitchen, turns around, and the look on his face makes Sam stop short.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, pale with shock. “Jesus, Buck, you-”

Sam looks at Bucky. His bright eyes, the amused curve of his mouth. He's clean-shaven, hair pulled back off his face, and he's wearing a new shirt, soft chambray, sleeves rolled to reveal slender wrists, careful hands. A spare hair tie around his right wrist, the little indents in his skin from where it’s dug in. Sam thinks about the Bucky Steve knew, so many years ago, and the Bucky Steve found in Bucharest, and his heart twists, because Sam's seen all this happen, the slow and subtle reveal of whoever it is Bucky Barnes is now, but fuck, for Steve it must be a shock.

“I mean, I think I look pretty good, all things considering,” Bucky jokes, “you're killing me here, Stevie,” and Steve's eyes go wet, and he drags Bucky into a hug, clinging like he's drowning.

“Aw, come on, Steve, it's not…” Bucky mutters, but he brings his left hand up, cradles Steve's head, and his right hand is fisted tight in the back of Steve's shirt, and when he makes eye contact with Sam, he looks a little like he's been taken apart and pieced together again.

“I know, I know, you just… You look good, okay, I just wasn't expecting-”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “Yeah, I know.” He pauses, as Steve pulls back. Tucks his hair behind his ear, looks briefly incredibly awkward. “Also, Sam’n I are stepping out. Seein’ each other. _Dating_ , fuck, I don't know, all of the above. Just to put everything on the record.” He blushes after he's said it, looks down in a sweep of long lashes, and god, maybe he should have given Sam some warning here, because Steve takes another sharp breath, glances between the two of them in clear confusion.

“You hate each other,” he says. “You- what.”

“Turns out,” Sam tells him, because Bucky's still blushing furiously and apparently tongue-tied, a total lie if Sam ever saw one, “turns out we really don't.”

“No, I still hate him,” Bucky says, smirks sideways at Sam. “But he needs _someone_ to look after him, Christ, I guess it's gotta be me.”

“Asshole,” Sam says fondly. “I'm just gonna… I'm gonna go, okay? I want to go see Wanda. You come find me when you're ready.” He's giving them an out, he knows, but he figures they need time, and hell, maybe he does too.

 

It’s Steve who finds him later, not Bucky. Sam’s sitting out on the back doorstep, just for a little peace. It’s good to be around people again, it’s great, it’s wonderful, it’s just, also, it’s so _loud_. Steve clears his throat, and hands Sam a beer, sits down next to him and waits a little.

“Thought you couldn’t drink,” Sam says, raises an eyebrow, and Steve smirks.

“Can’t get _drunk_ , doesn’t mean I can’t _drink_ ,” he says like it’s obvious. Clinks his bottle against Sam’s, and takes a long sip, looking out into wherever in the Pacific Northwest it is that they are. Trees, and rain. It’s colder here than at the Retreat. Sam feels suddenly maybe a little ripped off.

“Didn’t see Carter, in the house,” Sam says, and Steve’s face does a thing.

“No,” he sighs, “no, that… She’s great, she’s so great, god, Sam, I _liked_ her so much.”

“But it didn’t work out.”

“No,” Steve agrees, “no, it. It didn’t.”

“Man, I’m sorry,” Sam tells him, “I really am, I thought the two of you…”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “me too.” He drinks his beer, twists his mouth up a little, glances sideways at Sam. “It’s like this,” he starts, pauses like he has to think about it carefully. “It’s just, it’s like this, I never… I mean, you remember when we met, right? I was thinking about getting out? Trying to work out what makes me happy? God, I still don’t know. I thought, Sharon, maybe, but honestly, she deserves better than to try and fix me.”

“I hope she didn’t try,” Sam says, sharper than he intends, because yeah, he doesn’t hardly know Sharon Carter but she _definitely_ deserves better than being Steve Rogers’ stand-in therapist, and Steve makes a face.

“No,” he says, “no, she’s smarter than that. We’re still friends, I think. Or will be. You know, it’s complicated. She and Nat hang out a lot, though, so. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “okay, that’s- okay,” and presses his shoulder against Steve’s companionably. “You okay, seeing Bucky?” he asks, because he has to. “The way you looked at him, I honestly thought you might do yourself an injury.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve murmurs, and it’s a little wet, like just remembering it is choking him up again. “I mean, yeah, of course I’m okay, I’m- I’m _great_ , he’s so… god, I never thought. I was eating myself up over it, thinking he was gonna ask to go back into the ice, I _knew_ he was thinking about it before you left, and I never even thought-”

“He told me,” Sam says, “how he was thinking about it. Glad you found a way around that.”

“I tried,” Steve admits, “all I did was try, I was just _desperate_ , is all,” and Sam’s throat hurts with it, the casual way Steve says it. “You know, I've never seen him this happy,” Steve continues, after a minute. Sips his beer. “Jeez, Sam, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Is this going to be a ‘treat him right or I'll beat you up’ conversation, man?” Sam asks, and Steve laughs, lets the tension dissipate.

“No,” he says, “no, I had that conversation already. It's just- you deserve to be happy. I'm glad. You deserve it, Sam.”

“So do you,” Sam says, “so do you, Steve, come on,” and Steve sighs, looks away.

“I don't know,” he says, quiet. “I don't know, Sam, maybe I'm just not built that way, I don't know how to stop. Thought maybe I'd find it in Bucky, but our timing was always so wrong-”

“I'd give you a lot, you know that, but I'm not giving him up,” Sam tells him. Half a joke and half serious, like if Steve looked at Bucky with those big blue eyes Bucky’d remember all the reasons he’s followed Steve everywhere. Maybe Sam still feels that way, just a little. They’re going to be complicated, he knows, they’re going to be weird and complicated and Steve’s so fucking _good_ , but he and Bucky, they’re simple. They work. Even in the face of all this complication, Sam knows that through and through, and he’s happy, he’s so happy, he can’t help feeling like a bit of an asshole about it.

“No,” Steve says, though, sounding shocked, “ _god_ , Sam, no, I know,” and Sam sighs, leans forward until his forehead is resting against Steve’s. He knows, he _knows_ that he and Bucky are both still a little in love with Steve. He’s hard not to fall for, is the thing. Maybe they always will be, maybe he’s the third person in their relationship. _Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky._  It’s Steve and Bucky and Sam, and perhaps Sam’s a little heartsore about it, but they’re all gonna live. The only thing they know how to do is live.

 

When Sam comes in that night, he’s a little buzzed. Maybe more than a little. He and Steve had drunk a couple more beers, sat out on the stoop until Sam’d started shivering.

“Buck’ll literally kill me dead if I get you sick your first night back,” Steve says, laughing, and Sam rolls his eyes but it’s probably true. Definitely true. Bucky touches Sam’s arm, feels the goosebumps on his skin, and gives Steve a singularly unimpressed look before bundling him into a sweater.

“I _told_ you,” he says, irritation bleeding into his voice, “ _someone’s_ gotta look after him,” and Steve laughs until he cries.

“You’ve got it bad,” he tells Bucky, and at least Bucky has the good grace to blush like he knows he’s being overprotective.

“Man, ‘m okay,” Sam says, “I’m _fine_ ,” and sways a little.

“You’re drunk, is what you are,” Bucky says, and Sam shrugs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah, I am. Let’s go cook some dinner, huh?”

Later, in bed, Bucky rests his chin on Sam’s chest, gazes up at him for a long time without saying anything. Sam runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, looks back at him. Yawns, because he’s sleepy and warm and tired.

“Do you want…” Bucky asks, in the end, “I mean, do you- we don’t have to stay here forever, right?”

“What d’you mean?” Sam says. “Like, here in Canada? Here in this bed? I need some specificity, here.”

“ _Here_ here,” Bucky says, laughing. “In this house, I mean. I know you lived in the Avengers compound, before all this, I just wondered-”

“You want to get our own place?” Sam asks, and Bucky frowns but he nods, thoughtfully. “Moving a bit fast,” Sam says just to tease, and Bucky flushes.

“We don’t have to,” he says quickly, “it was just- I mean, we don’t have to, we can stay here,” and it’s Sam’s turn to laugh.

“Nah,” he murmurs. Touches his fingertips to Bucky’s cheek. “I was messing with you. You know, I miss my apartment. I never lived in the compound full-time, before all the shit went down, and fuck, I do, I miss it. Living with the team, it’s fine, for the moment, but- yeah. I’d like that.”

“We could get a cat,” Bucky says hopefully, shifts up to settle on the pillow next to Sam, and Sam leans over, plants a kiss on him.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he mutters against Bucky’s mouth, but his lips are curving into a smile already, and Bucky just hums like he’s pleased with himself.

 

It’s not like they get a house immediately, or anything. They’re _home_ , and maybe neither of them want to leave Steve alone again, not just yet, and there’s so much shit to deal with before they’re not technically still fugitives. It’s fine. They’ve got time. The farmhouse is full of people, full of noise and laughter, the Barton kids forever underfoot, and maybe it’s some kind of fucked up family but it’s _family_ , and Sam loves them all so hard.

“Where’s Clint?” Laura demands, and Sam shrugs. He’s peeling apples again, conned into it. Bucky promised to make cobbler, because Nat’s dropped in for a visit and she made big eyes at him, and apparently that means Sam’s on kitchen duty. He knows how this works.

“You have two hands, Barnes, I don’t get why you can’t do this yourself.”

“It’s a joy to watch you work, baby,” Bucky says lazily. Steals a slice of apple, and dodges Sam’s smack. “Sorry, Laura, I think Clint and Nat are teaching Lila high-wire tricks? I dunno, they’re out back with Wanda.”

“Over my dead body,” Laura says calmly, and thrusts Nathaniel at Bucky, and marches off to deal with Clint. Sam had thought, maybe, that Bucky would be awkward with a baby. He’s not. He just tucks Nathaniel into the crook of his arm, settles him on his hip, grins at him.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “Mama’s gone to yell at some folks, huh? Let’s just cool our heels for a bit.”

“You’re holding a baby,” Sam says, dumbstruck. “A _baby_ , Bucky.”

“Technically,” Bucky says placidly, “I’m pretty sure Nate’s a toddler. Right, kid?” Nathaniel gabbles at him, the kind of baby talk none of them except Clint can ever understand, and Bucky smiles, eyes soft and amused. Lets Nate grab at his hair. He's in a soft plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his hair is scraped back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck, and Nate is squirming in his arms, poking at Bucky's cheek, and he's _laughing_ , and-

“Christ, I love you,” Sam says without thinking, and Bucky glances up, rolls his eyes and smiles all at once.

“I know, you sap,” he says, and when he kisses Sam, it’s not like a dream at all. It’s peaceful, and it’s soft, and it’s just- Sam’s happy, is all. He’s so, so fucking happy.

**Author's Note:**

> "i'll write a fic," I said. "it'll be like 5k words," I said. FAMOUS LAST WORDS. Bless you [coffeeinallcaps](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/) you are the true hero for keeping me on track with this.
> 
> anyway I'm [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/) usually dying about my bucky barnes feelings, come join me

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] within me, an invincible summer by notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690233) by [joyinrepetition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyinrepetition/pseuds/joyinrepetition)




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